I will breathe the sweetest sigh.
If things have gone awry, just lie. Obfuscate and deny.
Just lie. Please just lie. Just lie.

As it was, let it be
with standardized and automatic revelry.
I'm just fine. You're just fine.
Just lie. Just lie, and I'll swallow that line.

Track Name: MS Drunk: a sober assessment

Oh, for you are brass and we are polished chrome.
Oh, for you are clay and we are cyclopean stone.
It's simply numerical.
Primarily clerical.
Unless the numbers work, it's not worth it.
Unless the math comes first, no, it's not worth it.
Risk and reward.
You've got to satisfy the board.
Unless the numbers work, unless the math comes first...
Time lost is profit burned.
Investments and returns.
You'd call them vulgar terms.
Investments and returns.

Track Name: The Albina Leprechaun

Fuck analog, we're going lunar.
Back to the leech and humors.
Back to the winepress and the plow.

So motherfuck your motherboards.
Back to cuneiform.
Before the hordes, before the swarm. Before the storm.

Your ones and zeros, they've had their time.
They're fucking up the program.
They've passed their prime.
Your one's and zeros, they've had their time.
We're gonna party like it's 909.
Burn up the servers. Pull down the lines.
We're flattening the earth out, 'cause it's 909.

Track Name: Nocturnal emissions

God damn that law. That verse. That line.
Murder the word that says you can't be mine.
All mine.
'Cause it's been a hard, hard world,
and now it owes me something soft.
40 winters, 40 thaws.
40 years between its jaws.
But I waded through that slime,
grit my teeth and bore the grime
to catch a glimpse of you, my dear:
the bloom of 40 fetid years.
God damn that law.
That verse, that line.
We'll murder the word that says you can't be
my child bride.
My child bride.
So full of blood and life,
my willing wedded wife.
Stay close to me, my pet.
You're not a woman yet.
There is no other one for me.
Issue and author of all misery.

Track Name: Halitocirrhosis

Two trick knees and a bleeding rectum.
Leaking through a deviated septum.
Gin blossoms, organ pains,
fallen arches, spider veins.
I gave my body to this game. My game.

Way down in the barrel, that's where I'll be
when that big, black bull comes looking for me.

I'll dance, reel and fight.
I might mime some comic fright.
'Til, one fine day, I'm in his sights.
Then, goodnight.
It's not as rotten as it seems.
It's quite a pleasant little dream.

'Cause when I feel that final rupture
to devastate this fragile structure
I want to go out in the ring where I belong.
Don't let me linger for too long.
(and if he wants me, let him take me)

'Cause when the blood clot hits my brain,
when the spasm racks my frame,
I want to go out in the ring where I belong.
Don't let me linger for too long.
(if he can catch me, he'll gore and break me)

And they can scrape me right out of my suit.
And they can spray me right out of my boots.
And let the juices sluice down through the chute.

Track Name: Corn Eyes

While the rust is working on the iron, the iron is working on the rust.
And while they're working in the bullpen, the bubble's working on the bust.

You're sure to find a piece of mirth from time to time,
but mostly there is work.
And if it keeps you occupied, that's as close to satisfied as humps like us deserve.

Behind that pushbroom, there's not much headroom.
Boardroom to bedroom, sir, one thing's for sure:
brother, it's all work.

The leaden march, the yawning grave. The leaden march, the yawning grave. The leaden march.
The yawning grave is not the end.
Carbon and nitrogen.
I'm turning matter into energy,
so, sweetheart, don't you cry for me.

The measure of my worth --
lord, I'll keep working underneath the earth.
I am the engine and the factory,
so, sweetheart, don't you cry for me.
Don't you cry for me, now, baby.

Underneath the elms,
I am the cargo and the heaving helm.
I am the atom and the cyclotron.
Long gone and burning on.

This is the work.
This is the work.
This is the work.
Now, don't you love the work?